


The Bridge.

by buckybuchanen



Series: Steve/Bucky One Shots. [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Suicidal Thoughts, or like i guess it COULD be romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7719682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybuchanen/pseuds/buckybuchanen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men meet a bridge with a similar mindset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bridge.

**Author's Note:**

> My first Steve/Bucky one shot. AU.

It was two in the morning, and he was already lighting his third cigarette.

He was walking slowly, movements delayed and sluggish. His worn out shoes hitting the pavement softly, too soft for anyone to really hear. He didn't know why he wore the old leather pair, but he felt it was customary. They were his favorite pair, given to him by his grandfather, back when he was happier.

Back when he wasn't like this.

It was quiet, except for his soft muttering as he tried to light his cigarette. The fluid was starting to run out, but he really didn't want it to die on him. Not now. Not when he needed it most. It was the only thing that he really lived for nowadays. And how sad was that?

Meet Bucky Barnes, aged twenty-two.

University graduate, chain-smoker and suicidal asshole.

He didn't really know when the thoughts started. They were like a steady stream, plaguing his mind until he couldn't think about anything but them. A hypothetical thought turned into an actual plan which turned into a note. The note in question was now hanging on his old bedroom door. He'd gone back to his childhood home, sneaking in using the spare key his mother left him. She was out, which made it easier for him to walk over to his bedroom door and tack it up. The words he wrote, in handwriting that was so much worse than usual, were seared into his brain. As he walked, all he could see were blue-inked letters and fragments.

Now, he was making his way down to the bridge, the same one he used to visit as a child. His grandmother and grandfather (the one who gave him the shoes he was now using to walk to his death sentence) had always warned him of the bridge. They were scared he'd fall off. He'd always felt like he was doing something wrong there when he used to go during his teen years. He still remembered spray-painting the walls with his friends, still keeping an eye on the railing so no one could fall off. The irony was almost painful.

The bridge that used to host those memories would now be the last sight he would see. It was a bittersweet thing, and he couldn't help but chuckle to himself.

Bucky didn't really want to act upon this. But he was done. He was tired. And he couldn't find it in himself to care about the consequences.

He turned the thumb wheel and sighed in relief when the lighter finally worked. Taking a drag as he lit his cigarette, he started to smoke like it was the only source of air he had.

Maybe this was a bad idea. He'd been thinking this through for weeks now, maybe even months. But it comes to a point where it was hard to even breathe. The bags under his eyes were becoming darker, his eyes looked bleaker, he barely ate and barely showered. He tried to hide it, tried to laugh as much as often. He tried to look as if he wasn't already dead as if he hadn't already accepted his fate.

Except. Bucky knew this was it.

He'd left his stuff for certain people already. He'd left his savings for his mother (told her how to access them using his note). He left his favorite wristwatch for his grandfather. He left his CD collection to Clint, knowing that would never make his friend forgive him for what he was about to do. His journals were in a box, Natasha's name scribbled on top, and he knew that even after death, she was the only one he trusted with his writing. He knew that if he was successful, she'd bring him back from the dead only to kick his ass.

He was almost at the bridge.

It was pathetic looking, standing after decades of abuse and graffiti. He wasn't going to harshly judge it, though, he needed the bridge and it was there, so he was going to take what he can get.

It was so overwhelming. He remembered climbing to reach bare walls, spray-paint cans in his backpack. His friends and he would each pick a color and graffiti dumb shit, and he always felt so carefree.

He took another drag and continued to walk, refusing to look at the graffiti. He knew some of his stuff was there, and he didn't want to look at them at all.

And so he kept walking.

**

There was a figure in the distance.

Bucky gritted his teeth, feeling on edge. He didn't want witnesses. He wanted to die alone for fuck's sake. He felt alone, he surely would love dying that way, too. Except, there was a part in him. A part that was happy that person was there. The small part of him that craved attention, that craved acceptance, that craved validation. He wanted that person to distract him, or at least that part of him did.

He was finally at the bridge, though. And he wasn't going to turn back now.

He kept walking, ignoring that small, tiny, minuscule part. He just wanted to die, and he'd wait till that person was gone to do it. He had an entire pack to go through, so he was set for the night.

As he walked closer, he noticed, with a drop in his stomach, that the figure wasn't as tall as the distance made it out to seem. They were standing on the outside of the ledge, arms holding the railing.

He noticed the figure take a deep breath—a man, blond, so small, Bucky didn't think the man would be able to reach his shoulder—and start to loosen their grip.

In a minute of panic, he started to run, immediately shouting, “Hey! You! Over there, stop! Stop!”

The stranger almost let go in panic, making Bucky's heartbeat increase. He dropped the cigarette and continued to run. When he got there, all that was on his mind was to take this kid and put him on solid ground.

“H-Hey, quit it—what's your problem, man? Let go of me!”

Bucky carried him off the ledge— _did he weigh ten pounds or something_ —and put him on the ground, now trying to block the punches the smaller guy was trying to land on his face.

"Hey, will you quit—I was trying to help you!"

"Let go of me!"

"What the fuck were you doing on that thing?"

The blond stared at Bucky, eyes wide and an incredulous look on his face. He barked out a laugh and brushed his hair out of his eyes, "Oh, you know. I was just trying to get a better view. What did you think I was doing? It's obvious."

Bucky stared back, sizing the guy up. The man was so small, he looked so malnourished. His eyebrows were furrowed, settling above blazing blue eyes. His chapped lips were twisted into an angry frown, and his hands were still drawn into his fists. He was red all over, from embarrassment? From anger? Bucky thought it was the latter, and he looked ready to punch Bucky in the face. Except he recognized him from somewhere, Bucky wasn't sure from where, but he looked so familiar it was off-putting.

"Why did you even do that for?" The man asked. He pushed his hair back again and took a deep, angry sigh.

"I was saving your life," Bucky said calmly, taking out a cigarette from his pack. He needed it so bad. His calm exterior was only a front because really, his heartbeat wouldn't stop pounding in his ears and he felt sick to his stomach.

"I didn't need you to save my life." the man replied. He shoved his hands in his pockets and frowned when Bucky struggled with the cigarette. His eyes glanced at Bucky's left hand for a fraction of a second and then back to Bucky's face. "You got a name, _Batman_?"

Bucky snorted and took a drag out of his cigarette.

"Bucky."

"Your mother named you that?"

"Alright, fine. It's James Buchanan Barnes, known to all by Bucky, known to the government, my mother and my doctor by James. You?"

"Steve."

"Okay, Steve. Now, can I trust you to calm down and not punch me in the face--"

"What are you doing here?" Steve asked, interrupting Bucky. He looked truly upset, and Bucky didn't know why he was being such a hypocrite. He was here to do the same thing, what was he doing stopping this guy from doing the same thing? Why did he care?

"I'm... "

Bucky didn't know how to lie. If he lied, he would've felt so rotten. He would've felt like a rotten liar. And he wasn't. He didn't want to be one. He just didn't know how to tell this man that he knew he felt the same. That he was ready to take his own life. That he wanted to do the same thing Bucky stopped him from doing.

"You..."

"I was here to..." Bucky took a long drag from his cigarette. He closed his eyes and exhaled.

He chose to just not tell the truth.

"Personal business. Steve, why are you doing this?"

Steve looked anywhere but at him. He turned around and rested his arms on the railing, avoiding the question.

They stood there for a while. The silence was awkward. It was uncomfortable. Steve had eventually changed his posture, opting to wrap his arms around himself.

Bucky stood there, now resting on the railing. He continued to smoke. He wasn't sure if he was waiting for Steve to answer him back, or just for anything to happen.

It was five minutes later. Five agonizing minutes spent not looking at each other. Steve had looked up at him, blue eyes filled with tears (angry? Sad? Bucky couldn't tell), chapped lips trembling, yet he looked as if he was trying so hard not to cry. The shorter man wiped furiously at his eyes and sighed deeply, his breath getting stuck in his throat.

"I don't know how to tell you." He eventually said, voice cracking.

Bucky nodded sympathetically. He tried to smile at Steve, tried to let him know that it was okay, but he couldn't.

"I know how you feel."

**

They were sitting side by side now. Bucky was smoking his sixth cigarette that night. His lungs burned, his clothes infused with smoke, and he was seriously considering that this would be his last one.

Steve sat quietly, still trying to calm down. It was almost three. Bucky's eyes stung with fatigue. He didn't expect to still be around this long. He thought he'd be gone by now, or in the process of doing that.

And yet, there he was; he was sitting next to a stranger. He was sitting next to a stranger, a stranger who almost had the same fate as him, a stranger who he decided to save, a stranger who was now staring up at him.

Bucky finally looked back. He watched as Steve bit his lip—his lips were so chapped—and asked, "Why did you stop me?"

He looked down, staring into blue eyes. He extinguished the cigarette, finally done with it and spoke softly, "Because I had to."

Steve got more frustrated. He pursed his lips and ran his hand through his hair, breathing in through his nose.

**

Fifteen minutes.

That was how long they stayed quiet.

Bucky wasn't about to break the silence. He sat there, thinking about nothing. Every time he thought about his mother coming home and finding the note, his throat would get thick and his eyes would water.

Steve, however, was playing with his shirt. It was a threadbare button-up, holes on the side and a stain on the front. Upon closer inspection, Bucky could see that Steve didn't look that well-off. His pants looked so old, and his shoes were practically falling apart, showing black socks underneath the sneakers.

Maybe it wasn't even fifteen minutes, maybe it was more, maybe it was less. Steve broke it, eyes staring straight up ahead.

"I can still do it, you know."

Bucky nodded.

"I know."

**

"My mom is going to kill me."

Bucky was still sitting, smoking again. He felt light-headed, but he felt good.

Steve was looking up at him, teeth biting into his chapped lower lip.

Bucky snorted, "Isn't that what you wanted?"

Steve stared at him blankly. A laugh escaped his lips, followed by a couple more until he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. Bucky laughed along with him. Their laughs echoing in the silence of the night.

It felt like it was only the two of them, laughing. Strangers, sharing a moment, laughing at a morbid joke.

Eventually, Steve stopped laughing. He stopped laughing and looked ahead.

"I still want to do it."

Bucky frowned.

"Why?"

"Because I deserve it."

Bucky reached out a hand as if to pat Steve on the back.

Except, he couldn't. It would be too weird. They were strangers, he'd scare Steve off.

He stopped at the last minute.

**

It was Bucky that broke the silence this time.

It was nearing three-thirty in the morning. His eyes were burning with fatigue, but the idea was still circling in his head.

He wanted to die, he wanted to jump, he wanted to stop existing. He didn't know why he hadn't left Steve and gone to a different part of the bridge and jumped off, headfirst, hoping for a death down there.

Instead, he found himself sitting there doing nothing with a complete stranger. A stranger who was now staring at him, as if wanting to say something but couldn't.

Bucky looked down at him, this time shifting so he could lean on his elbows and stretch his legs in front of him.

"Steve, why do you want to do this? What's so wrong about your life that you'd resort to doing this?"

Steve frowned and looked down, his blond hair covering his eyes.

Bucky waited. He waited for Steve to reply, to say anything.

Steve shifted as well as if stalling. He leaned back, grabbed a sweater that Bucky couldn't see before off the ground and placed it on the ground so he can rest his head on it.

"I'll sound pathetic."

Bucky shook his head and put out his cigarette. He took off his jacket and placed it behind him so he can mimic Steve.

"You won't."

"Promise you won't call me pathetic?" Steve asked, looking wary.

Bucky stuck out his pinky towards Steve.

The blond laughed and linked his pinky with the other man's.

"I promise."

**

It took Steve a few minutes to get his thoughts sorted. Bucky waited.

"I just feel helpless. I feel like nothing matters, you know?"

Steve took a deep breath and continued, "Like, I'm twenty-three now, right? And what do I have going for me? I went to art school and now I'm working a dead-end job with a degree that's so useless I can use it as a mousepad."

Bucky's stomach dropped. This was exactly what he was going through, except he'd went to get a business degree and now he was working as a barista, serving coffee and every day he'd stare at his degree, so indebted, he'd feel nauseous thinking about the five-figure number.

"I'm... I'm in so much fucking debt," Steve said, voice cracking, "Not just for school but for medical bills, and half of them aren't even mine, and I have so much. My medication costs so much, and I can't make rent, and my landlord's kicking me out. I just can't take it anymore and—

"My mom's dying, Bucky," Steve said, voice cracking, a tear making its way down his face at the last word.

"I'm so sorry," Bucky replied softly.

More tears made their way down Steve's face, "I'm trying so hard, and I know that there's no reason why I should feel like this, but there's no point anymore. I try, and I try, and all I get back's nothing. I'm so hungry all the time because I have to pay for my mom's medical bills, and mine, and the student loans, and rent's due tomorrow and I have nothing—" Steve stopped talking and started to breathe fast. Bucky sat up, alarmed, and started to call out, "Steve? Steve?!"

Steve wasn't paying attention, though. His breathing became more ragged, the tears were flowing, and he'd curled up into a ball.

Bucky immediately went to his side, sitting on his knees. He hoisted Steve up, telling him over and over again to breathe.

His blue eyes were wide, bloodshot, wet, scared-looking. His face was getting redder, sweat forming on his forehead.

"Steve? Steve, you gotta breathe. Come on, breathe with me," Bucky repeated, over and over, breathing in and out, feeling relieved that Steve was copying him.

"Okay, breathe, please, just relax."

Steve breathed along with him, hands clutching Bucky's shirt tightly.

Bucky didn't know what to do, this was entirely new territory for him. He was scared, fucking terrified, and he didn't know how to calm Steve down. Eventually, Steve had stopped crying. He was trying to regulate his breathing, muttering, "I'm fine, I'm fine," repetitively. He was still holding Bucky, except now he looked embarrassed.

Bucky couldn't say, _you're fine_ or _you're gonna be okay._ He didn't know if that was the case, he was being such a hypocrite, a fucking liar.

Except the words tumbled out of his mouth, as if he had no control over them.

"Steve, you're gonna be okay, okay, bud? You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be fine..."

And Steve only nodded, rubbing his eyes.

"You got so much to live for—"

"You don't know that!" Steve yelled, "everyone should stop telling me that, you don't know that, you don't know me—"

"Then, let's get to know each other."

And so they did.

**

"My mom used to be a nurse," Steve said, "she's one of the few reasons I'm even alive right—anyway. My dad died back when I was a kid, so it was only me and her."

"I used to have a dad, too," Bucky mentioned, playing with his lighter.

"What happened?"

"He walked out on me."

**

"What's your favorite color?"

"Blue. Yours?"

"Red."

**

"No, that band sucks ass and if you want to tell me otherwise, then you can fucking fight me!"

**

"Please tell me why you're here."

"Same reason as you."

**

"What happened to your arm?" Steve asked, finally bringing light to Bucky's left arm.

It was four in the morning. The two were sitting so close, Steve's head on Bucky's lap and Bucky's fingers threading themselves through blond hair.

"It was an accident. It happened a few months ago. Car accident, actually. I was walking and a drunk driver hit me."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't, it's fine. I go to physiotherapy, and the arm's not the prettiest but at least I'm alive."

**

"What are the reasons for staying alive?"

Bucky stopped playing with Steve's hair and pursed his lips.

"You mentioned it before, how I got so much to live for. What do you mean?"

They stared at each other for a few seconds. He was trying to figure out his answer, but couldn't really phrase it properly. He took out his pack, grabbed a cigarette and lit it, taking a much-needed drag.

"Well. There's probably a bunch. You can't leave your mom behind," Bucky started to say. At that moment, he thought back to his mom, who either didn't see his letter or was freaking out, calling everybody.

"We. We can't leave our mothers behind. They need us so much, and if we leave them, what's gonna happen to 'em? The world sucks, but the problems are easily solvable. Or at least, you know, solvable. And I'm not saying we're being selfish for wanting to do this, or stupid, because this is a problem, Steve. This is like the fucking plague, and we need to survive, for... for reasons.

"Like, if we die tonight, we won't be able to pet another dog, go for another walk, meet another person, look at the sunrise. We wouldn't be able to get stressed, have a bad day, or have good ones. We wouldn't be able to do things we love. Like you said, you wouldn't be able to draw and I wouldn't be able to go for a drink, or spend time with my sister, or my friends. 

"If... if you and I die. If you and I do this, we'd hurt people, I guess. I was writing my note, and a part of me kept thinking about the people who care about me, but... a huge part wasn't. But talking to you, talking to you here, well, it changed things."

Steve frowned, "I guess..."

"Steve, you gotta listen to me, we can't do this. We can't, I don't want to do this anymore." Bucky stumbled on his words in his haste to take out his pack of cigarettes. He'd finished his other one and stared at the pack in his hand. Only four were left.

"If we die, we can't make mistakes."

"And why would we want to make mistakes?" Steve asked, perplexed. 

"Because... we're human, I guess? Because that's what people do? I want to make mistakes, and fix them, like—" He crushed the pack in his hand and chucked them over the bridge.

"Bucky!"

"And... I want... Stand up."

Steve looked weary, but he did. He stood up and helped Bucky up, looking at the taller man as if he were losing his marbles.

He looked down at Steve's chapped lips and pulled him close, placing a kiss on Steve's lips. A short one, barely a few seconds.

Steve looked angry, "Sex isn't going to save me."

"Not sex, risks. Being reckless. Being stupid. Being impulsive."

Steve sighed and looked out towards the city, but not at Bucky. However, he continued to talk.

"If we die, Steve, then we'd have done nothing we wanted. I always wanted to go to Europe, and if I die, then I'll never have the chance. If you die, then you'll never have the chance to be in a gallery, or pay off your debts, or meet the special someone that you want to meet."

Steve was starting to look more convinced.

Bucky stared into Steve's eyes, his own eyes were wide as if trying to urge Steve to listen, to understand. He placed his hands on Steve's shoulders, looking at him with such urgency.

_This is temporary, I can do this. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this._

"If we die, then it's game over, and... we can do this. Our problems are fixable, Steve."

"But how? Buck, you keep saying that, but do you even believe what you're saying?"

Bucky nodded quickly, "I'll get a second job. I'll apply for places; I'll try to get an internship. We were both talking about rent, but we can just move in with each other. That's more money for your bills, and more money for our loans, and we can do this."

Steve looked into Bucky's eyes as if trying to look for a lie as if waiting for Bucky to laugh at Steve for believing him. Bucky felt tears start to well up, he was getting so emotional and he was so tired.

"Hey, if we both live, we can do this. We'll do it together."

The blond nodded slowly and then wrapped Bucky in a hug, trying to communicate his feelings in a simple human gesture.

"Thank you," Steve whispered into Bucky's shoulder.

Was he thankful for Bucky saving him? Was he thankful for Bucky's speech? Bucky didn't know but replied anyway.

"It's really no problem."

They stood there for a few seconds, holding each other.

"I'll walk you home," Bucky said after a few moments of silence.

Steve nodded, eventually letting go of Bucky.

"Okay."

**

They stood on Steve's doorstep.

It was his mother's house, in an okay neighborhood, only a street away from Bucky's place. They'd exchanged numbers on their walk back, and now they stood there as Steve searched for his keys.

The two looked at each other, still emotional.

Bucky looked down at Steve, hoping Steve listened to him. He hoped he made an impact because he already helped himself.

That's not to say that the thoughts still circulated in his mind, but he didn't want to act upon them. He wanted to give himself a chance.

"So, what do you say?" Bucky said as Steve unlocked the door.

"About?"

"About what I said? Back at the bridge? You willing to hold off?"

Steve thought about it for a moment.

"... Yeah. I am."

"Good."

Bucky nodded to himself and turned around, ready to go back home. He'd made plans to go home and burn that fucking note, burn it until he couldn't read anything anymore and all that remained was ash.

"Wait! Bucky."

Bucky turned around, looking at Steve questioningly.

"Do you wanna meet up tomorrow?"

Bucky thought about it.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd love to."

"Good."

And so he went on his way, lighter in hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked reading this! I know this was OOC but I really enjoyed writing this I thought this was fun. This was slightly inspired by a Tumblr prompt that I really liked, but I changed a lot as I wrote the story.


End file.
